"You really need to talk to him," Mariah whispered, as she lay in her husband's arms that night in their small double bed. The boys were snuggled up against each other on the floor in their sleeping bags, their even breathing a definite sign they were all sleeping peacefully. Andrew hugged her even tighter, and rested his face against hers. He marveled again how fortunate he had been that, even if he was too awkward and tongue-tied to admit it, she had known right from the start that he was the man she loved more than anything in the world. The gods had blessed him mightily when they created this woman.
He gently kissed her cheek, trying to ignore her advice. She'd heard what had happened during the children's training class, and it was typical that she wanted to find a solution to the problem. Problem-solving was her strongest trait–well, second strongest, he mused silently with a smile, as his hands roamed her satin skin. He kissed her again, and felt her lips press against his. They had so few quiet moments like these on this Enterprise, where privacy was almost unknown. As she pulled away from him, she said, "I know what you're trying to do, Andrew. You won't distract me from this." He smiled, "Really?" He kissed her again, and a soft hum of desire rose from her throat. "You need to clear the air with Lieutenant Reed," she continued. "You can't carry this burden forever."
Andrew lay back against the pillow, Mariah resting her head on his chest. "I know," he admitted, "but I just–I just can't. Every time I look at him, every time we talk, I just want to punch him or walk away, or both." Mariah combed her fingers through the blond fuzz on his bare chest. "You have a couple more weeks onboard, and you may never get another chance. He deserves it, and more importantly you deserve it. You're not asking anything of the man, just telling him the facts." A chuckle rose from him, "you are always right, aren't you?" he teased. She raised her head to look him in the eyes. "I've always been right about you," she reminded him, "from the time I was 12 years old, I was right about you." She rolled over on top of him, and captured his mouth in another kiss.
Malcolm headed for the mess hall for a quick lunch. He'd decided to take an early break from the armory, since he'd skipped breakfast. He didn't expect it to be crowded, since it was well before most of the alpha shift would be there. As he strode through the doors, he noted that a few women and children from the other Enterprise were at adjoining tables, 'like a gaggle of hens with their chicks,' he thought as he grabbed a roast beef sandwich and headed for the drink dispenser. Moments later, plate and tea cup in hand, he spun around to grab a table and nearly collided with two small boys who shot by right in front of him. It was only his acute balance that kept the tea from sloshing to the floor. One of the boys, his red hair shining in the lights of the mess hall, shouted "sorry!" over his shoulder as he sprinted after his friend, who, Malcolm noticed, bore a slight resemblance to Phlox.
'Children,' Malcolm thought as he sat at his usual table, his back against the wall. He watched the two zooming around the room, dodging around tables and other diners, laughing and calling to each other. 'Why don't their mothers make them behave?' He watched as they both slowed down and joined the tables that had been pulled together to accommodate the group of 5 women, each of whom had children either in their arms or sitting next to them. The kids were busy grabbing food, giggling, and poking at each other, and the 2 boys settled into chairs and began to eat. His own parents would have never tolerated such behavior, at lunchtime or any other time. Malcolm had a quick flashback of himself at the same age as those boys, but he was sitting quietly at a table, cringing inwardly as his father berated him for using a spoon instead of a fork. He'd learned at an early age that parents looked at children as burdens, hopeless losers, unappreciative brats who should take a lifetime of abuse and never oppose anything, especially when your father told you to join the navy. Malcolm sighed, shook his head and took a sip of tea to clear those dark memories. They were the reason he never wanted children himself.
As he took a bite of his sandwich and chewed, Malcolm wondered whose descendants the children were. Some of them had obvious physical features; skin, eye, and hair color, facial features, and so on. Some were so boisterous that Malcolm wondered if they had a little of Travis in their backgrounds, while others seemed to sit so quietly and calmly that it was easy to see T'Pol, although he knew that she had had only one child, Lorian, with Trip. He shook himself out of his reverie, it was time to get back to the armory. He picked up his dishes, dropped them in the recycler, and left the room, keeping an eye out for any child-size flying objects in his path.